


predestination

by cptsuke



Category: Terminator Genisys (2015)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4373591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptsuke/pseuds/cptsuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows he gives Reese – gives Kyle – the one photo he has of his mother.  But at the same time he doesn't know how.<br/>Like most things John knows are coming, he kind of wishes he never finds out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	predestination

**Author's Note:**

> okay. im not sure what i should apologise for, but im pretty sure i should, so, sorry. so very sorry. i just kind of wanted to sit in johns head for a little bit and think about kyle reese. and then it spread from there.  
> definite apologies for the meandering tho. youd think idve sorted that out by now.

John knows he has to trust in fate, trust he can make it bend the way it has to for everyone's survival, but his father is a skinny – _breakable_ – kid, and then a soldier with a worrying self sacrificial streak.

 

But trust is a very finite thing when he's living on the edge of _no fate but what we make_ while using every bit of his mother's taught foreknowledge to predict the future as best he can.

 

It was infinitely easier when the idea of Kyle Reese was some undefined moment in the far future, but, as John had spent the last eight years discovering, decidedly less so when the man in question is flesh and bone and in harm's way more often than not.

 

John thinks about it – doesn't mean to, doesn't _want_ to – but does all the same. He wonders – sometimes when he truly hates himself – how his father dies.

 

_(died?)_

 

Even his mother, always so unforgivingly and unflinchingly precise about the things that would come, had always skated around the event.

 

And John had never had the heart nor reason to push.

 

Now, with Kyle within arms reach more times than not, John wonders, _how._ Was it something he could've prevented if he'd just taught Kyle more?

 

Could it have been averted with more knowledge – less knowledge? - more training, more time, more _something?_

 

There are moments where John toys with the idea of growing up with two parents, little pointless daydreams that go nowhere and serve only to leave him on edge; tense and disgruntled about something that never happened. Would never happened.

 

Still. He wonders. How does this kid die? What one thing finally ruins his impressive run of luck and instinct?

 

And how can John stop him from trying to die before his time?

 

The only thing that eases John's never ending coronaries is Reese's apparent ability to pull through, to _survive_.

 

That's the thing, John thinks, the trait that's most important.

 

The one thing they need most of all.

 

 

It's somewhat a comfort, knowing certain things, having a vague idea on what's coming, but disconcerting at the same time.

 

For example, John _knows_ he gives Reese – gives Kyle – the one photo he has of his mother. But at the same time he doesn't know _how._

 

Oh sure, John's showed him Sarah a handful of times already, in the quiet moments when there was nothing to do but breath and wait to see whether they'd get to see another day.

 

Kyle already held the flimsy piece of plastic like it was something holy, though whether that feeling was for John, Sarah or both, John couldn't know.

 

But what was the exact circumstance that would make John press that polaroid into his father's unknowing hands forever to keep?

 

Like most things John knows are coming, he kind of wishes he never finds out.

 

 

It's the Nagadosha offensive. A simple sabotage of one of Skynet's manufacturing plants that turns to shit almost immediately, and while they manage to knock down a good percentage of the plant's guard, most of the soldiers in John's platoon are down, leaving only a very few to deal with the remaining Terminator sentries.

 

While John's gotten good at pretending, good at filling the blanks in the history yet to come, things still take him by surprise; but John's poker face is well honed and he's learnt that with a little foreknowledge and a lot of rolling with the punches, he comes out on top more often than not. It's that thought that keeps his hope up, when all seems impossible or lost.

 

He loses sight of Reese early in the mess; the fear he always feels thrums amidst the knowledge that Kyle will – _must -_ survive, that the kid was quick, skilled and as lucky as the best of them and in the end that's all any of them have.

 

 

John gets to a good vantage point – plenty of cover with a decent field of view – picking up a heavier rifle from a fallen soldier - Mia Corban – DN58689 - joined up young and now dead just as young - as he makes the mad dash.

 

He just needs clear the yard, try and stop this mission from becoming a complete slaughter. He's picking off whatever fills his scope when he catches sight of Kyle again, wide eyed and a bit bloody but upright and fighting like he means to win the war all in his own tonight.

 

It's hard but John moves on - fires a round into the centreplate of a T-800 getting too close - but keeps his rifle moving.

 

He doesn't hear the round that blows his little sniper nest up. Just picks himself up off ground that's at least thirty foot from where he'd been a moment ago and looks for a weapon.

 

Something's happened to his face; half his eyesight has gone to shit, blood wet down his neck and soaking into his collar. But it's not mortal, for all the sharp burning pain and blood tacking up his eyesight, nothing could be done for it right now. So John ignores it and runs, hits cover and tries to get his bearings, figure the best way out while taking as many of his soldiers as he can.

 

A cry catches his attention.

 

The sort of cry every human knows too well.

 

One John's heard too often.

 

The sort of cry someone makes when they're hurt; badly, too badly, mortally.

 

John looks for the source, heart dropping to his stomach.

 

He's not far from John – Reese must have been heading for John's position – he's so much closer than he had been last time John saw him – _stupid, brave idiot_ – a battered but functional Terminator looming over a madly struggling Reese; one end of a sharp piece of broken off metal in its hand, the other stabbing deep through Kyle's bodyarmour into his chest.

 

“KYLE!” John's yelling even as he starts running, weaponless.

 

 _He's not dead yet_ screams through John's head as he yells again, voice carrying through all the noise to the thing's auditory system.

 

“HEY!”

 

Red eyes turn on him, seeming to focus more intently as it registered him, the red burning brightly.

 

_Shit._

 

It recognizes him.

 

“Yeah, that's right you son of a bitch, you know who I am.” He mutters as the T -800 drops Reese and comes at him.

 

Kyle hits the ground and doesn't move. That scares John more than the tonne of death machine bearing down on him.

 

He's tried not to show preference – fails miserably mostly – but at times like these John's learnt that he just has to accept Kyle is really fucking important to him, in perhaps every possible way.

 

With Reese somewhat out of danger John moves fast, backing up looking for a weapon – _anything –_ that will keep him alive a little longer.

 

He spots it when the machine is almost upon him.

 

His rifle.

 

Its powerpack has been knocked loose in the blast that sent them both flying, but it should still be good for a few rounds.

 

Enough to put the Terminator down if John's quick and good.

 

He is, he tells himself, a list of times and dates, places and offensives that haven't happened yet burning through his brain. He has to be.

 

John's hands dig into soft sand as he scrambles backwards on his butt, bringing the rifle up to bear.

 

He gets a shot off that burns across the Terminator's metal plating – ineffective – and another much weaker one that barely scores a mark before the rifle whirs sadly and powers down. Then the Terminator is over him, too close, too fucking close, and there's no time to do anything and maybe he's been wrong all along. Maybe he knows nothing. Maybe this is where he dies; a good but ultimately failed resistance.

 

But then there's loud _ting_ noises like rocks dropped on metal – _or someone firing a pistol at a Terminator's skull_ – and the T-800 pauses, distracted by Reese emptying his magazine at it from where he's still laying on the ground.

 

It's not much of a distraction – doesn't last long or make much impact on the machine – but as John looks around wildly for salvation he spots his rifle's knocked loose powerpack.

 

He moves _fast._

 

Humankind might have been brought down to its knees but that didn't mean they weren't just as determined and dangerous,

 

Sometimes, John thinks, Skynet made an error in how it tried to exterminate them. Sure they have died by the billions, but the ones that survived, the ones that continue to survive in this world so hell bent on their extinction, those were people smarter, faster, and some much more effectively violent than anything they could've been before the bombs dropped.

 

He reaches the powerpack; knees skidding in the dust as he spins, reloading and cocking the rifle in one smooth well practised motion.

 

The Terminator is still way too close for comfort but at least he has a chance now.

 

And that's all he's ever needed.

 

His next shot burns through the metal chestplate and John follows it quickly with another, the shot frying the thing's power core.

 

It falls, red eyes flickering, but John's already ignoring it, rifle held tight in his hand as he runs back to Reese.

 

Kyle's empty pistol, still loosely held in hand, drops into the dirt when John heaves him upright.

 

Reese gasps, eyes flying open as John steadies him.

 

John pulls aside body armour to get a good look at the damage, dark heavy blood pumps out of the deep wound.

 

 _Fuck_ , it looks bad and _dammit all_ , he needs to get to cover, to get somewhere less exposed.

 

John works quickly, eyes continuously checking for any movement around them, getting his knife out and cutting Reese's sleeve off.

 

“Reese? Reese, can you hear me?” He asks, balling up the fabric and pressing it hard against where the bloods flowing thickest. “I need you to hold this, keep pressure on it. You hear me?”

 

Kyle's eyes narrow as he squints up at John.

 

“John?,” He groans, voice coming out breathy and hoarse but his hand comes up to where John's hands are. "You okay?"

 

He's still squinting up at John, staring at his face, and -  _oh_ \- John rubs a hand over the congealing blood that's covering half his face.

 

"It's fine, I'm fine." He grins and huffs a small laugh. "Just a scratch. You good?"

 

“Help me up.”

 

It's harder than it should be to get Reese on his feet, even once he's standing John's still got most of Kyle's weight on his shoulder.

 

If they can just get into the processing plant, the cover of heat and interference should hide them from any machine that's still standing until they can get away or back up comes.

 

They're close when Reese's legs give out, his sudden dead weight pulls John down with him, the two of them tangling and tumbling to the ground _hard_.

 

John groans as he stands himself up, his whole head throbbing from the mess his face is in. Beside him Reese kind of grunts, face first in the dust. Breathing hard, John rolls him over, pleased to see that even though Kyle's eyes are squeezed tightly shut, he's still got a hand half-heartedly trying to keep pressure on his wound. With another quieter groan John hooks a hand around shoulder strap of Reese's body armour and drags him the rest of the way.

 

 

 

“Sorry.” Kyle gasps as John tries to sit him gently up, skin pale underneath splashes of red and dirt.

 

“They'll come back for us.” _For me_ , John doesn't say.

 

There's blood on Kyle's lips when he says, “ _You've got to get out of here, John.”_

 

“Hey, hey, _**hey**_.” John can't find the words; th _ey can't die here, they have to get through this, this is not the end, this hasn't even truly begun yet._

 

“You gotta go.” Kyle's voice is slurring now, sitting upright but grey and breathing short pained gasps. “You gotta leave me, John.”

 

“Shut the fuck up.” John says checking his rifle again in lieu of looking at Reese right now. “We're both getting out of here, soldier.”

 

 _Shit,_ Reese looks worse that he had when the wounds that had cut around – _into_ \- his ankle had gotten infected and they'd spent a week making preparations to amputate it unless what weak, outdated antibiotics they had started doing _something_.

 

“I just need you to hold on til the extraction force arrives.”

 

The edges of Kyle's eyes crinkle as he grins at John's words – eyes tired, teeth bloody – it's not a happy grin.

 

“John.” Kyle's saying the words carefully, putting all his strength into a forceful voice. Quality, not quantity. “ _Leave me._ ”

 

John doesn't know how he knows that now is the time. All he knows is that Kyle's breathing bloody beside him and somehow it feel _right_ to take the photo from his the safety of his jackets pocket, to take Reese's limp hands and force weakening fingers to clutch it.

 

“I need you to survive, Reese, _she_ needs you to survive.” He's just talking now, babbling; voice more desperate than he'd like, but true and full of conviction trying to find the right words that'll keep Kyle alive until help comes.

 

There's blood on Reese's fingers that slides across the plastic as his grip finally tightens without John's help. Red covers his mother's face; the blood will wipe off or it won't, but if Kyle Reese doesn't survive the photo well never be and everything else will fall apart just as fatally easy.

 

 _Kyle Reese can't fucking die_. He'd been 12 years old and already marked with the machine's numbers by the time John had found him. John hadn't even known he'd been about to find his father until he'd turned from the smoking terminator and looked down and seen something in the muddy face before him. He hadn't even trusted that feeling until the kid had named himself in a quiet but strong voice.

 

John's never told a soul, never whispered the name, never hinted at the method of how he had came to be being anything other than average. He sat on that knowledge like a secret, last ditch, final prayer of a weapon that was only useful so long as he kept his damned mouth shut. A secret he could hold onto when everything else went sideways, one moment in time that couldn't change as long as John Connor existed.

 

He's never wanted to say it so badly as he does right now. To give Reese something other than flimsy plastic to hold onto, something to tell him that for all his Connor family hero worshipping, _Kyle Reese fucking mattered._

 

John squeezes Reese's hands around the photo a little tighter.

 

_No._

 

Kyle would survive, _he'd be fine._

 

“You got this?” John doesn't wait for a response, just squeezes where he's holding Reese a little too tight, John needs a plan, something. He looks at the building they're hiding in, it's a processing plant, right? John can work with that. There had to be something useful, something he can make useful. _Anything_. “I'm going to see if I can't find something to contact Base Command. Set up a rendezvous and get us the fuck out of here.”

 

Kyle frowns as John releases his grip, hands twitching like maybe he wants to grab at John, keep him from going further into the plant, where he'd be without backup or intel.

 

“I'll be back, trust me.”

 

Reese's hands drop down to his lap, still holding tight to the photo, as he nods like John's saying something obvious.

 

“You be alive when I get back,” Kyle nods again but John grips his shoulders hard and gets in his face, whispering angrily. “That's your mission soldier, _stay alive._ ”

 

“I will,” Kyle says with wet sounding voice, eyes black and sunken but earnest. “I'm good.”

 

John thinks that maybe he does have his mother's eyes, but maybe he got that look, the look that says – even in a face scared, hurt and bloody – says _you can trust me, you_ _ **should**_ _trust me,_ maybe he got that look from his father.

 

“I'm trusting you,” John looks down at the photo held tightly in a white knuckled grip – the last of Kyle's strength, or renewed vigour? - and squeezes his father's shoulders once more, leaning low to speak quietly. “And you have never let me down.”

 

Then he stands, leaving his father – bleeding out and alone – on the ground, and moves on.

 

 

 


End file.
